“I think you’ll find this one of most interest.” Smitty unearthed a chest in the far corner, lifted it to the top of a stack and unlocked the lid. Inside was a rainbow of shimmering silks and satins—some simply bolts of cloth, others already made into dresses, nightgowns, and other garments. How in the world did a ship run and staffed entirely by men come to have, or need, such feminine articles?
Oh, right. Privateer.
As she slid the shimmering silk between her fingers, she thought of the former owners of this abundance. Had they been treated well when their goods were confiscated?
A chill ran down her spine. Had they been killed?
Her question must have shown on her face. Smitty pointed to the chest of silk. “A lot of this came from a French merchant that tried to outrun us a couple years ago. We already sold most of that load.”
“And the rest?”
Smitty grinned. “The captain does like the ladies. Some of the gals have left things on board.”
Harriet dropped the scarlet silk wrapper as though burned. She thought Smitty laughed but he was apparently coughing into his elbow.
Her situation had not changed, so she reluctantly began looking through the chest’s contents more seriously, searching for anything to replace her sensible woolen gown. Or at least anything she could get into and out of by herself without the assistance of a privateer who ‘likes the ladies.’ Was there such a garment already made up, or would she have to attempt sewing a gown from whole cloth?
She set aside a green satin dress and a few other potential items as she dug deeper in the chest, determined to look at everything. Nothing was very promising so far. It was all so fine, much more suited for a ball room or boudoir than a ship, and the gowns required assistance. From the corner of her eye, she saw Smitty retrieve a slim leather-bound book from a high shelf and begin writing in it with a pencil he’d had tucked above his ear. “What’s that?”
“As ship’s purser, it’s my duty to record everything that’s taken from the slop chest, and then the cost is deducted from the sailor’s wages at the end of the voyage.” He grinned. “Though in your case, I’m sure the Old Man will make an exception.”
Sheffield would charge her? Deduct the cost from her share of the treasure?
But what if they didn’t find the treasure? Or they did find it, but it wasn’t worth what Papa thought it was?
She folded the silk and put it back in the chest. Wool was more practical anyway. Just how long would it take her to knit a dress? Once she learned to knit, that is. Both Mama and Madame Zavrina had tried at different times, with little success. Perhaps there was some muslin or cotton or other practical fabric. She just needed to keep looking.
Her fingers fell on rough wool spilling out of another chest. Men’s breeches. “Just out of curiosity,” she said, unfolding and holding them up, “what would these cost, compared to the red silk?”
Smitty showed her similar entries in the ledger book. A sailor could purchase multiple complete changes of clothing for a fraction of one silk gown. “Dungarees are even cheaper.” He pointed to a different line in the ledger.
That seemed so unfair, when a man could wear the same clothes day after day while a woman needed several changes. Even at the Academy, they’d needed to change for dinner every evening.
Harriet fought the urge to sigh. Even if she found practical fabric, she doubted she could sew together a presentable garment before they reached Spain. She couldn’t go about wearing her wrapper all the time.
She held up a pair of brown dungarees with brass buttons on the fall. They had wide legs designed to reach about mid-calf, and were cut generously through the hips, to reduce the likelihood of splitting a seam when spending so much time kneeling to holystone the deck or bending over a yardarm furling sails.
They weren’t all that different from the drawers Amber Barrow-Smith had worn under her gown to an assembly, just made from heavier cloth. They also had laces at the back of the waist, to accommodate a wide range of sizes in wearers. It was unlikely the crew of a ship this small included a tailor, though the sailmaker could probably make do in an emergency. She held the dungarees to her waist.
Dare she?
Dungarees would not have got caught in the axle of the cannon carriage. She shivered at the memory of being pulled overboard and underwater, those awful moments when she thought she was about to die, and even worse, had failed Gabriel and Mama.
She fingered the silver H on its chain around her neck. Did she dare continue to let Sheffield button her in and out of her gowns?
“Mr. Smitty, can you help me find the smallest of these you have? And a shirt like that one.” She pointed to an undyed drawstring shirt of homespun cotton.
“Pretty sure that ain’t what the Old Man had in mind, but I’m game if you are.” Smitty set aside his ledger. “Let’s see if we can find the clothes Charlie wore. They should fit close enough.”
“Did Charlie … is Charlie dead?” Harriet pictured an unfortunate cabin boy.
Smitty let out a laugh, then shook his head. “Married one of the captain’s best friends less than a fortnight ago.”
Charlie, married … Oh, he meant Charlotte! “What a small world. I didn’t realize Charlotte had ever dressed like this.” Harriet looked at the clothing with a fresh eye and fished out a waistcoat that looked small enough.
“Came in handy more than once to have her not look like a girl.” Harriet wanted to ask more, but Smitty fished out a pair of blue-and-white striped dungarees. “Here ya go!”
They sorted through the clothing until she was kitted out with two changes, plus a knit wool cap and other items Smitty recommended for her new wardrobe. Which wasn’t exactly new—the dungarees already had a patch on each knee and several stains from tar, and the shirt had been mended at the elbow. Madame Zavrina was surely rolling over in her grave. Harriet didn’t care, because she’d be decently covered and most importantly could get dressed—and undressed—all by herself. And no one she knew would ever see her like this. Besides, Charlotte had once worn them, which was immensely more comforting than thinking some unknown cabin boy or sailor had last worn them.
